The whoop and the hat together were enough to startle almost any horse; and, although Mr. Trafton’s fine roadster, “Billy,” was pretty well trained, the combined effect was a little too much for his nerves. He gave a sidelong leap and started to run. His master checked him sharply, and veering from the road, he ran the wheels into a deep rut, and over went the buggy with a crash!
Linda screamed, as she was pitched headlong into a thicket of sweet-fern which grew along the roadside; but the bushes broke her fall, and, beyond the fright and a scratched hand, she received no injury.
Her father was equally fortunate, and, as Billy had recovered from his momentary panic and did not run, the accident appeared, at the first glance, to be nothing serious.
The boy who had caused it came forward, with a look of trepidation upon his countenance, exclaiming:
“I’m awfully sorry, sir; I didn’t mean to frighten your horse. I was down behind the wall and didn’t see you coming, or I wouldn’t have thrown my hat so. I was only scaring a squirrel.”
“He must have been pretty thoroughly scared,” said Mr. Trafton, drily.
However, the boy’s bright face wore an expression of such honest regret that he added, with a good-humored accent:
“Well, well, I was a boy myself once. You must be more careful another time, my lad.”
“That I will, sir.”
And as Mr. Trafton began to raise the overturned buggy, the boy took hold and helped him.